Nicky turned her head once again to the sky. It was a warm, beautiful morning, the sky a freshly born blue. Summer had been cool and wet, but the autumn had so far been doing its best to make up for it. ‘So what do you fancy doing in the meantime?’ Nicky said. ‘It would be a shame not to make the most of this lovely weather.’

Fleet removed his weight from the bonnet of the car. ‘Ben’s family is the immediate priority,’ he said. ‘Now that we have a positive ID, we need to get to them before the press does. After that, we’ll take another trip into the countryside.’ Beaconsfield College was a forty-minute drive from the city – not all that far from Fleet’s home town, as it happened. ‘We talk to the headmaster, other members of staff. And obviously the rest of Ben’s friends.’

Fleet opened the car door, and made to get inside. He stopped, turned back to face Nicky.

‘The school is at the heart of this,’ he said. ‘Whatever happened to Ben started and ended there.’

Ben – January 1997

(Three and a half months before his death)

A book slammed on to the table, jolting Ben from his thoughts. He’d been gazing through the lead-crossed window, at the clouds and the swirling rain, imagining all the other places he might be; the other people, had his life turned out differently, he might be with.

But now Mr Cavanagh was looming over him, the fingertips of one of his hands resting on the book he’d just dropped on to the surface of Ben’s desk.

‘Will you be gracing us with your attention today, Mr Draper?’

‘I … uh …’

There were titters around the room. Ben glanced, and saw nineteen pairs of eyes glinting as they looked his way.

‘Uh?’ echoed Cavanagh. ‘Perhaps at your previous school you were able to communicate in grunts and groans, Mr Draper, but at Beaconsfield you will find you struggle to make yourself understood. And I, for one, do not speak Neanderthal.’

There were more titters, and Ben felt himself flush.

‘Perhaps you could direct your attention to the question on the board, Mr Draper. What is your opinion on the matter? In English, if you please,’ Cavanagh added.

Ben turned towards the whiteboard at the front of the class. In big, blood-red letters, the words What is ‘history’? had been scrawled and circled.

Which at least clarified what lesson this was. In his daze, Ben had been struggling to remember.

‘Um …’

Cavanagh rolled his eyes theatrically. He was playing to the crowd now. ‘Uh, um. Um, uh,’ he parodied. ‘Stand up, Mr Draper.’

‘Huh?’

This time Cavanagh did not need to give a signal. The rest of the class laughed of its own accord.

‘Stand up, Mr Draper. Surely you understand English, even if you struggle to speak it.’